Barney hurried back to his guests, shaking hands, asking them to come again, and receiving gushing thanks for a most agreeable afternoon. Suddenly there knelled forth on the murmur of farewell the solemn notes of the _Funeral March_, like the measured toll of a passing-bell. The metallic clangour of the instrument gave a vibrant thrill to the sombre music, which was lacking in the smooth, round tones of the organ. Langly played like a man entranced, his head thrown back, his pale face turned upward, looking as if life had left it. An instantaneous chilling hush fell on the assemblage, as if an icy wind had swept through the room, freezing into silence the animated stream of conversation. Some shivered where they stood, and one girl, clasping her cloak at her throat, paused and said, half hysterically: “If this is a joke, Mr. Hope, I must say I don’t like it.” “Cursed bad taste, if you ask me,” muttered one man, hurrying away. “Oh, I say,” cried Barney, as much shocked as any one at the inopportune incident, and striding toward the performer, as soon as his wits came to him, “we didn’t want a dirge, don’t you know.” The lady who had spoken in praise of Langly’s music laid a detaining hand on Barney’s arm. “Hush!” she said gently, the glimmer of tears in her eyes, “don’t stop him. Listen! That man is inspired. I never heard Chopin played like that before.” “Oh, it’s Chopin, is it?” murmured Barney, apologetically, as if, had he known it, he would not have interfered. The throng dissolved rapidly with the unwelcome chords ringing in their ears, leaving Barney and his guest standing there alone. Langly, on finishing the march, sat where he was, his long arms drooping by his side. “Wouldn’t you like to speak to him?” asked Barney. “No, not now.” The lady stole softly out, Barney following her to the landing at the head of the stair. “Please don’t lose sight of him,” she said, giving Barney her hand. “I want you to ask him here again, and let me invite the guests.” “I’ll do it,” said Barney, enthusiastically. “That will be awfully jolly.” “No, it won’t be jolly, Mr. Hope, but we’ll hear some enchanting music. Good-by!” Barney re-entered the room, and found Langly standing beside the piano like a man awakened from a dream, apparently not quite knowing where he was. “You must have something to drink,” cried Barney, cordially. “You look fagged out, and no wonder. I never heard Chopin so well rendered before. I tell you, my boy, you get all out of a piano that’s in it, don’t you know. Now, will you have whiskey or brandy?” Langly thanked him, but refused either beverage. He had a long walk before him, and was anxious to get away, he said. “Walk!” cried Barney. “Nonsense! Why should you walk, and thus insult every self-respecting cabby you meet? I’ll see about the walking; I hope I know my duty towards the hansom industry.” Barney touched an electric bell, and when his man appeared said to him: